He faced her, shoulders relaxed, voice steady. “I promised you and Benjamin both that we’d save Nyllmas. It’s my own fault for dragging my feet this long. Saelihn was right. This is something the Cat’s Eye needs to do.”
While Helspira stuttered protesting half-sentences, Death sidestepped to get out of the demon’s path. “You’d barter with the lives given unto you when the Cat’s Eye fused with your spirit?” the reaper reiterated with skepticism.
Sikras nodded. “Only on these terms. Give me one hour per lifetime. Every hour that passes where I haven’t killed Vessik, you have my express permission to take a life. Picture it, Death. Even one less lifetime without me flitting in and out of Enos like an uninvited guest. What a gift, huh? You’d be one step closer to the Cat’s Eye unraveling from my spirit and returning to Enos, and if I were to run out of lifetimes entirely, you’d have Benjamin as well. I know you and Dionus have been vying for him for some time.”
“Where is she?” Helspira spun, searching for a figure she would never see. “What’s she saying? There must be another way.”
“A tempting offer,” Death said with no regard to Helspira’s concern. “It would be a lie to say I didn’t crave eternal peace for Mr. Reese, and it would certainly get Dionus off my back. It’d be an even bigger lie to say I didn’t miss the company of the Cat’s Eye. Enos is quiet without it.” She stepped away, her long tattered robe leaving no marks as it dragged across the snowy ground.
Helspira pursed her lips. “Sikras, I want to save Nyllmas more than anything, but this isn’t a fair trade. Less than eight hours to kill Vessik? You couldn’t even do it in four years.”
He regarded her with a smirk. “Nonsense. It’ll be easy. Like dominating your opponent in a game of Rack and Ruin or learning new steps to a dance.”
Helspira frowned. “Your life isn’t a boardgame. Not to me. You can’t just list off arbitrary things you’re good at and hope that inspires confidence.”
“Can’t I? Damn. That usually works if I say it with enough certainty.”
“Besides,” Helspira continued, “eight hours? That’s insane. You wouldn’t even make the walk to Stow’s Peak in that time.”
“That’s where you come in.” He hoped he injected enough sureness into his expression to discredit the panicked beating of his heart. “We’ll get as close as we can to Stow’s Peak first, to give us more time, and then ... I’ll kill Benjamin to start the countdown. It’s my hope that you’ll watch over his bones while I do what needs to be done.”
Her focus darted from one eye to the other, until she sent an inquiring look Benjamin’s way. “Ben? How do you feel about all this?”
A long pause preceded his reply. “I think you know, Hels.”
Death lingered in the space between the three before issuing a nod. “Mr. Nikabod”—she proffered a hand—“you have yourself a deal.”
With mild hesitation, Sikras reached forward. Cold hands wrapped around Death’s skeletal fingers, and he shook.
With that, his fate was sealed.
A well-timed, icy wind blew between them, whistling through the tall grass that poked up from the snow. Death released Sikras’s hand and stepped backward. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Nikabod.”
The chill of her touch somehow felt like frost bite and burned flesh. He wiped his palm across his vest in hopes of relieving the sting. “Wish I could say I looked forward to it. Nevertheless, thanks for accepting the terms.”
She nodded. With a swoop of her scythe, she vanished.
“Well,” Sikras mumbled, smoothing the wrinkles in his sleeves, “I suppose we best start hoofing it. We’ve a long walk ahead of us. Cross your fingers the Red Sentinel is still alive by the time we arrive.”
“I don’t like this at all. I think—wait.” Helspira paused, brows furrowing. Fresh concern layered over her existing dread. “The Red Sentinel. Rowan said he was returning to Vinepool at first light to regroup before they attempted another attack on Stow’s Peak.”
“Really?” Sikras frowned, recounting his conversation with Rowan prior to his departure. Yes, he recalled the banneret arguing with his advisor but had overheard a clear plan to return to Vinepool. “You’re right. We kept a swift pace, but there were no signs of them trailing us so far as I recall.”
As if on cue, a flash of red emerged from the distant, densely packed tree line. And another. And another.
Caught in his peripheral vision, Sikras turned toward the movement. “Ah. There, see? Late but present. We worried for nothing.”
Benjamin rounded his shoulders, posture stiff. “Something’s wrong.”
Shielding her eyes, Helspira squinted. Red Sentinels hobbled closer, limping, shuffling, crimson scarves blowing behind them, like bloody banners. “They’re not in formation, and their gait is ... strange. Are they injured?”
With a narrowed gaze, Sikras flexed his fingers. They couldn’t be, could they? Though they looked like tiny figurines across the expanse, he reached out with his mind, feeling, searching, crossing the gap that separated them. He scavenged for that familiar warmth of a soul and felt naught but ice. “Worse,” he whispered, stomach sinking. “They’re dead.”
More bodies emerged from the tree line. Peasants. Townsfolk. Skeletons of humans and animals alike. Sikras counted fifty, sixty, seventy bodies. How? How could Vessik, of all people, resurrect that many when even the most talented caster in Siaphara could manage ten to twelve at best before succumbing to thaumaturgic backlash?
It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. And he didn’t have the time to try to make sense of it as countless men, women, and children spewed from the trees, like fleas abandoning an animal carcass. The wooden stakes and rusty blades they wielded didn’t exactly screamdanger, but the sharpened steel and crossbows clutched in the hands of undead sentinels did.
And then, it appeared. A familiar silhouette that stepped from the trees. It would’ve been impossible to see his facial features from across the expanse, but Sikras knew precisely to whom that body belonged. Almost as if by a spell. Almost as if Vessik wanted him to know he was there, waiting.
